As a great loss loomed, I feared straying too far from the hard truth. But I learned to distinguish denial from hope. My mother was diagnosed with peritoneal cancer in May 2021. By all accounts, a terminal diagnosis. Lost and bewildered, with a deep ocean of questions, she searched for words of authority to cling on to. When she met with oncologists, she would ask how long she had. ‘How long do you have? Well, I can only tell you the average, but I’m not sure that is helpful. Everyone is different.’ Tell me when I might die, doctor, so that I might know how to live.